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“I like being close to you.”
I reach out and brush a lock of hair from her forehead, surprised to find that my hand isn’t trembling. She grabs my hand and presses her cheek against my palm, and I almost stop breathing. I bend to kiss her on the cheek, but the brim of my ball cap smacks her in the middle of her forehead. She reaches up to rub it. “Ow,” she says.
Jesus, I’m an idiot. I turn my hat around backwards. A grin I can’t bite back breaks across my face. “I want to try that again.”
She nods, and the red splotch on her neck moves up to beneath her chin.
“Okay, here goes,” I breathe out.
“Jesus Christ, Grady Parker, would you do it already?” she suddenly barks at me. She grabs both sides of my face and presses her lips against mine.
Her lips are soft and full, and she doesn’t move. She doesn’t open her mouth or tilt her head or do anything else. Instead, she stares at me, her eyes open as we’re stuck there for a moment. I stare into her wide-open eyes.
She pulls back, a frown marring her features. “Well, you didn’t go up in flames, did you? The heavens didn’t open and strike you down. The earth didn’t swallow you.” She holds up her hands like she’s showcasing me, like I’m a letter on Wheel of Fortune. “I didn’t kiss you and then bite your head off and eat you for dinner.” She pats my chest. “You’re still alive.”
“Oh, miracle of miracles,” I mutter. I can still feel her lips against mine. “Give me a minute. I might still die of it. I’m waiting for the poison to spread into my bloodstream.” I try to keep a straight face, but it’s impossible.
“I hate you so bad, Grady Parker,” she says, but she’s smiling too.
“I guess we’re done here, then. What do you want to do now, Clifford?”
She shrugs.
“Want to go somewhere with me?” I watch her face, looking for any hint of hesitation. She has none.
“Sure. Where are we going?”
“There’s a movie playing at the drive-in.” I continue to watch her face.
She smiles and her cheeks turn rosy. “You remember the last time we went to the drive-in?”
I grin and nod. “I do.”
“Tell me what you remember,” she prompts.
“I remember touching your boob.” I laugh as loudly as she does.
“You said it was an accident.” She pretends mock outrage.
“It totally wasn’t,” I admit.
21
Grady
I spent almost a year dreaming about Evie Allen’s breasts. And when I say dreaming, I mean that I went to bed thinking about them, woke up to wet sheets after dreaming about them, and I spent an indecent amount of time staring at them during the day too. I was nearly obsessed with getting to touch them.
I was pretty sure that Junior had already touched Barbara-Claire’s boobs, because she giggled when he looked at them and licked his lips. They didn’t think anybody noticed, but I noticed everything. And I’d particularly noticed Evie’s boobs.
I’d known Evie forever. I knew her when she was flat-chested, and I’d known her before I even knew what boobs were. And when we were eleven, her aunt had given her the very first bra she’d ever owned.
She’d given it to her at her birthday party, and Evie had opened it in front of everyone. Her face had turned absolutely scarlet, until her mom swooped in, took the box and put it away. But since I’d been sitting right next to Evie when she’d opened it, I’d seen it. It was plain white with a tiny little bow in the middle.
The next day
at school, Evie had arrived with straps on her shoulders under her clothes that she kept fiddling with. It was just a training bra, and Evie still didn’t have enough boobs to need a bra at that point, much less train them. What I could never understand was what her boobs were training for. To be honest, that part still eludes me.
But by the age of fifteen, Evie’s breasts had grown so much that she’d gone from a training bra to a real bra. We never talked about it, because the one time I’d brought it up, she’d snapped at me and told me to go home.
